


drive home to you

by Kiseia



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Clubbing, Cuddling, Depression, Disordered Eating, Drug Use, Drunk Driving, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot reiterate this enough, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post break-up sex, Roy has upgraded from a mess to a disaster, Roy is a fuckboi, Smoking, Substance Abuse, dick has joined the bad decision brigade, don't drink and drive kids, jason is also a mess, jfc these two, porn with angst, porn with bad decisions, puking, roy harper is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21404974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiseia/pseuds/Kiseia
Summary: "Hey," Roy murmurs, breaking the quiet. "Jason?""What?" he asks.Fingers rest against his neck, tracing the prominent jut of his collarbone. "I miss you," he whispers, leaning forward and putting his mouth there instead.--Jason and Roy are a story that's meant to be over. Neither of them seem to be getting the memo.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Roy Harper, Roy Harper & Donna Troy, Roy Harper/Jason Todd
Comments: 60
Kudos: 265





	1. right back to the start

**Author's Note:**

> __   
[baby, I'm faded; all I want to do is drive home to you](https://soundcloud.com/blockbootlegs/faded)   


Strobe lights cut through the dark room, pounding in time to the shitty remix of a shitty song Jason doesn’t know the name of as he muscles his way through the bodies. It’s hot in here. Packed, people swarming together in a claustrophobic mess that reeks of sweat and ammonia as they sway and stumble against each other. The drink in his hand trembles, water spilling over the edges of the cup as Jason resists the urge to throw it at someone. A couple stumbles into his side, laughing and stumbling apologies from their clumsy lips, and Jason wraps his arms around the girl’s waist, steadying her until she leans against her - boyfriend? Probably some random stranger she’ll never see again, and they vanish back into the crowd.

It should be easy. Should be easy picking him out from a throng of people considering his unique hair colour, but everyone here is painted in the same monochromatic hues. The longer he stays, the more that tense itch grows. There’s too many people around. Too many people packing him in, crowding around him and stealing his air. He should’ve left his jacket outside. Should’ve made the asshole fend on his own for once. Should’ve -

“Jaybird!” Even past the loud music, Jason is attuned to Roy's voice like a bloodhound. A split second later and he crashes into his side, making him stagger and almost knocking the same couple off-balance. Jason wraps an arm around his bulk, shouldering the burden of pretty much his entire body weight and hefts them both into an approximately upright position. Or tries to, but Roy seems to have trouble finding his balance, weaving too far off to the side until Jason is forced to catch him again and drag him back against him.

“What are you doing here?” Roy screams in his ear, and Jason winces, starting the ordeal of nudging them both back to the edge of the dance floor.

“You called me, asshole,” he says, shoving the cup of water in his hands. “Drink this.”

Roy blinks at him with his too-large pupils, staring at him and then down at the cup and then draining the water in one go, almost dropping the glass on the floor before Jason intervenes and catches it. He smells like he’s been running a marathon, sweat soaking through his shirt and making it stick to the leather of his jacket as he pulls Jason towards him, nuzzling into his neck. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

There’s a slur in his words like his voice can’t sink deep enough, a jittery restlessness roving over his skin even as he plasters himself to Jason like he’ll be content to stay here forever. There’s smoke in his hair, a thin layer overlying the sweat. Fruit in his breath, either from alcohol or from sucking the drink from someone else’s lips, and Jason’s hand falls down, grabbing his arm and pulling it tighter against him to help him keep his balance as they stumble up the stairs at the edge of the stage.

“Yeah,” he says, letting Roy press him up against one of the glass dividers. He reaches back, strokes through his sweaty hair as he kisses at his neck, sloppy and wet. “You’re a fucking mess.”

“Mmhm,” Roy says, and giggles. “Jay, you’re so hot.” He pulls at his jacket, pulls at his jeans but doesn’t actually try pulling them off, which, thank God for small miracles.

Like he’s one to talk. Roy is burning like a furnace behind him from the throng of bodies and from whatever he’s taken. E, obviously, but who knows what kind of shit is mixed into those pills. Jason grunts, pushing them both away from the glass and starting their slow, halting progress towards the door again. "Come on, buddy,” he says, keeping his grip firm around the sweat-slick skin of Roy’s wrist.

Roy mumbles something into his neck, nosing into his hair, and Jason shoves the empty glass onto a ledge before dragging Roy out of the door under the watchful eye of the bouncer. Immediately they’re hit with a blast of cool air, and Roy sighs, melting even further into his back.

“Love you, Jaybird,” he mumbles, and Jason breathes out slow.

“Keys,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“You drove here, right? Keys.”

It takes a minute of fumbling, but Roy does eventually manage to fetch his keys from his pocket. His fingers tremble when he drops them onto Jason’s hand, and Jason catches them, covers them with his own.

“Where are you parked?” Jason asks, half-turning to face him as he squeezes his hands, and Roy blinks long and slow, his other hand creeping under his jacket, his shirt, resting against the bare skin of his stomach almost as if on instinct. When it starts slipping past the waistband of his jeans, Jason grabs it and yanks it out, settling it over his clothes instead. “Car,” he prompts again.

“I.” He sighs, squeezing Jason tighter, pulling him back against his chest like he wants to curl around him the same way he could when Jason was barely breaking five feet. “Don’t remember,” he says, a low, mournful curl to his words. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Jason’s already got the location pulled up on the tracker app on his phone.

“I’m sorry,” Roy tells him again as Jason pulls him along the sidewalk, only one block away from where they’re standing. It’s hard with Roy seemingly determined to stick to him like an overgrown burr, plastering as much of himself to Jason as possible. “I’m sorry, Jaybird.”

“It’s okay,” Jason says, looking down the street before pulling them over the crosswalk. "Don't worry about it."

“I messed up,” Roy tells him, all of his previous exuberance abruptly sliding into a downswing now that they’re out on the streets and out of the club. Jason pauses on the sidewalk, half turning to face him. The brightly-lit display of the boutique behind them highlights the downturned angles of his mouth, the frown dipping between his too-wide eyes trying and failing to focus. Jason reaches up, brushes the sweat-slick strands of his hair away from his face and Roy nuzzles into his palm like he’s starving for his touch even though he’s literally spent the last half hour plastered to him. His eyes fall half-shut, bright lashes shuttering over those wildfire eyes dimmed to embers, and something squeezes in one long line from Jason's heart down to his belly.

“It’s okay,” he says again, because what else can he say. Because it’s _true,_ but he doesn’t care. Roy’s guilt is enough for both of them.

“You’re so good, Jason,” Roy says, kissing his palm. “My little Jaybird.”

“Roy - “ Jason starts, right as Roy leans forward and kisses him.

It’s hard. Hard and dirty, tongue sliding into his mouth tasting like lime and cherries, tasting like other people, and Jason slides his hand into his hair, gripping the greasy strands and not caring that he’s still sweating and gross as Roy pushes him up against the window. Hard, because that’s the only way they know, barreling forward without looking back, and before Roy he didn’t know there could be so much emotion put into a physical act.

Roy draws away, nipping his lip. “Sorry,” he murmurs against his mouth. “I messed up. Baby, I messed up, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

“Roy,” Jason says, resting their foreheads together and kissing him again to cut off his semi-lucid rambling. “Stop. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I messed up.” Roy trembles, burying his face against his neck, and Jason freezes shock-still before slowly raising his hand and rubbing slow circles into his back. “Jason, I. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this to you.”

“Hey, none of that.” From the corner of his eye, Jason can still see his shitty beat-up car sitting on the street, old enough that it doesn’t have a key fob and the doors have to be opened manually.

"You're too good for me." Roy sighs, speaking against his skin. "You know I love you, right?"

Jason wraps his arms around him, pulling him into a hug. Rests his chin against his shoulder until the film clears from his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, listening to the sound of late-night traffic in the distance, the sirens wailing towards them, maybe heading to the same club they’d just left. “Come on, Roy,” he says once he finds his voice again, once he’s sure that it won’t shake. He nudges him up, gently, guides him towards his car. “Let’s get you home.”


	2. remind me what I felt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [remind me what I felt before you went away; tonight I need your help remembering myself](https://soundcloud.com/ithinkimcrashin/stephen-remembering-myself)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops

"Come on." Jason waves the orange slice at him, the sharp tang of citrus cutting through the air. "Just eat one."

"I'm not..." Roy starts, and then falls quiet when Jason sets the knife down and peels the rind away from the flesh. He separates the slice into bite-sized chunks with his hands, juices dripping down his fingers, sliding down his wrist in tantalizing trails that Roy follows with eyes that are way too awake and alert for someone who should be coming down right now. Or hell, maybe he's just hitting his peak. It's not like Jason knows when he decided to get fucked. "… hungry," he finishes weakly.

Jason turns to face him, glad that the light doesn't reach the kitchen. Maybe it'll be dark enough to conceal the reaction he still has to Roy _watching_ him. "Just one," he repeats, taking one of the pieces and pressing it to Roy's mouth.

"Jaybird," Roy whispers, pausing and letting Jason slide the fruit past his lips. His breath fans over his fingers, past the sticky trails of drying juice in a tremulous sigh that pulls at him, pulls at his heart until it's tripping over itself and jumping up to his throat. A calloused hand wraps around his forearm, thumb dragging past the delicate bones protruding from his wrist. "Baby, this is unfair."

Wordlessly, Jason feeds him another piece. "Just eat."

They go through the whole orange this way, Jason coaxing piece by piece past his dry, chapped lips. And yeah, he knows he's being unfair, knows he's playing dirty—but hell, this is pretty much the only edible thing he can find in Roy's apartment. An orange, two bananas, and an almost-expired carton of eggs sitting next to a box of curdled milk, and Jason doesn't know when was the last time Roy actually _ate._ There aren't even any empty takeout boxes scattered over the counters, but maybe they're in the trash. Maybe—

Roy finishes the last piece and sucks on his fingers, licking them clean while looking at him like – and Jason is frozen in place, heat curling in his stomach as Roy slides his tongue between them, cleaning between the creases before his mouth moves down to his palm. Licking over there, too, sucking the juices from his skin, and Jason's other hand curls into a tight fist on the counter. He bites his cheek as Roy moves down to his arm, mouth and clever tongue and those bright wild eyes still fixed on his, and this isn't – this isn't what he came for.

This isn't why he's here. He shouldn't – _fuck._ Fuck, it's so much easier when he has something else to focus on, when they're not trapped alone together in Roy's shitty apartment with the weight of darkness pressing them close. Close enough that he can smell Roy's body wash, the fancy conditioner Donna gave him coating his hair along with the scent of his shampoo, mingling with the bright scent of citrus hanging in the air. He's still so warm. So warm, and pressing closer to Jason, pressing him up against the counter.

"Don't leave," Roy tells him, something desperate and tight riding behind his words. He's over-enunciating, trying to hide how high he is, still, but Jason can feel the tremors running down his body. "Come to bed with me, Jason? Please?"

"Roy," he whispers, framing his hips instead of pushing him away.

A small, sardonic smile twists at his lips. "We don't have to do anything." He drops his head to Jason's shoulder, nosing at his neck. "I just want you here." His hand comes up, sliding over his waist, and Jason shivers at his touch. "Just. Just hold me, okay?" He presses a kiss to the skin that shows beneath his shirt, and then, quiet, so quiet that it might be the wind whistling between his breaths, "Please."

_No,_ Jason thinks, which is what he should say. "Okay," is what he ends up saying instead, shifting his grip and then pushing them both towards his bed.

"Thanks," Roy mumbles, easing out on the covers, and Jason stares resolutely at the pillow as he crawls up beside him.

"Shut up," Jason says. "Just… shut up, okay?"

For once in his life, he listens, curling into Jason's chest before he gets the chance to turn around. Thick arms wind around his waist, holding him in his deceptively strong grip, and the shaky sigh Roy breathes over his shoulder sounds like the first exhale he's let himself in weeks.

There's no way he's actually tired enough to sleep right now. Already there's a new sheen of sweat covering him even after his shower, and it's only when he's not in motion that the trembles start back up again. Jason closes his eyes, counting his heartbeats, counting Roy's soft breaths as he winds around him like he's trying to meld them together, trying to crawl into his chest. Which is funny, almost, because it's not like he doesn't already have a home in there despite all of Jason's attempts to evict him, and fuck, it _hurts._

It hurts, this bitter longing lodging itself into his spine. Hurts because this is a scene straight from his memories, one of the hundred thousand ones he's tried to forget. Roy still fits so well against him, and it's on the tip of Jason's tongue to tell him that he's dying. Dying here, in this town, surrounded on all sides by all of his worst vices, and Jason will drop to his knees and _beg_ in a heartbeat if he thinks it'll actually make a difference. Beg him to leave. To come with him. Escape the fate that they can both see at the end of the tunnel because he's too good for this life. Too good for the kind of story Jason's seen play out a hundred different times before in a hundred different faces, and the anger running through him barely even feels like anger anymore.

He's just so _tired._

No one ever warned him how much it'll hurt waiting to lose someone.

"Hey," Roy murmurs, breaking the quiet, cutting into all of Jason's tumultuous thoughts. "Jason?"

"What?" he asks, keeping his eyes closed because he can't look at him right now, otherwise the _please_ he's keeping behind his teeth might spill out.

Jittery fingers rest against his neck, tracing the prominent jut of his collarbone. "I miss you," he whispers, leaning forward and putting his mouth there instead, and Jason should push him away. Push him away and get _out,_ call Dick or Donna or one of the hundred other friends to come babysit his sorry ass instead, but he just breathes, slowly, feeling the air grow thicker and thicker inside the room.

Roy moves, unhurried, not kissing him so much as mapping out Jason's skin with his mouth. Dry, almost chaste, dragging his lips over him again and again, and it still feels like too much. Still feels like an apology even though Jason doesn't want to hear it, and he hates how he can still read him so well. Hates how it affects him still, makes him burn and grow tight with wanting, and he doesn't know if it's worse or better knowing that Roy is the same. Knowing that he can't control himself, either, not around him, and it feels like a noose choking them both.

He can't do this. Can't do this to himself, can't let them both do this to each other, but his tongue feels heavy and dry in his mouth. He reaches down, winds his fingers through Roy's damp hair, and Roy groans into his ear, rocking against him and grasping his shirt like he wants to tear it apart. "Stop me," he says, the same desperate longing burning in his voice. "Fuck, Jaybird. Come on. Tell me _no."_

Silence stretches between them. Jason chews on his lip, lets out a slow, shuddering breath, and tilts his head back into the covers, baring his neck in a blatant supplication for _more._

Roy curses against him, and then his mouth is back, licking, _sucking,_ teasing the skin there with his teeth, and Jason is still biting his lip to hold back the confessions that want to spill out. Like how he misses this, misses _him_ that it hurts to even think his name, and on some days he feels less like a person and more like the absence of one. More negative space cut in the shape of his longing, and it's been so long since he's felt bright like this. Burning with the force of his desire, ready to raze worlds to the ground if it means protecting what's _his_.

"Say it, baby," Roy whispers right into his ear, and the hand splaying out over his chest trembles in time with his voice. "I can't… I need to hear it you say it. Tell me, Jason. Tell me you want this. Tell me I'm not…"

"Yes," Jason rasps out, pulling him up for a kiss, and even in this state Roy gets his pants open in no time. He's shaking like a leaf as he moans and pushes his tongue into his mouth, forming a tight fist around him, and Jason can't help the way his hips ruck up. Can't help the way he's falling, falling still even when he shouldn't be, even when he should be _over_ him by now and not tripping again right into the same type of heartbreak.

"I want to suck you off," Roy tells him when they pull apart, and it takes a moment for Jason to register his words. It's hard to concentrate when he's squeezing, stroking him with a grip on the right side of being too tight. "Can I – let me, let me taste you, please, darling, _please."_

"Fuck, Roy," Jason snarls. "Just…" he lifts his hips, beseeching, and Roy's gone in an instant. He doesn't even have time to miss him before he's sucking him down with a hungry moan like he's desperate for it, like he's been wanting this, too.

Jason digs his fingers into the sheets. Slaps a hand over his mouth as Roy takes him down, and down, and _down,_ and just that by itself is enough to leave him shaking. Fuck, he's so _good_ at this. So good at pleasure, at being exactly what he needs, and it barely feels like a minute before he feels that tightening in his gut. "Roy," Jason groans, tugging at his hair, and Roy swallows around him, takes him in deeper, makes him come, and come, and _come_ right into his hot perfect mouth.

Roy doesn't let him go until he's slumping back against the mattress, boneless and tired and reeling from the afterglow dragging him into a forced calm. Barely reacts when Roy pushes his shirt up to his collar, staring down at him like he's trying to drink him all in, like this is the last time he'll ever see him again. "No," he says, batting Jason's hands away when he tries reaching for him. He breathes out a shaky sigh, leaning over Jason and bracing himself on one hand as he pushes his pants down with the other, pushing into his own fist. "Just. Just let me look at you, alright?"

Wild eyes rove over him, blazing with a fire he knows, and Jason can almost convince himself that it's _Roy_ leaning over him right now, jerking himself with an unsteady grip and dripping onto his stomach. Except the arm next to his shoulder is shaking, threatening to collapse under his own weight, and Jason wraps his hand around his wrist in a silent promise he shouldn't make. "Fuck, Jaybird," Roy breathes, and his voice is so breathy and low the way it gets when he's so turned on he starts spouting whatever dirty thought pops into his head. "You have no idea, do you? No idea what you can do to a guy."

His face burns from it, burns the way it always does when Roy gets going. _"Shit,_ you're so gorgeous, baby." Roy groans, almost falling over if not for Jason's steadying hand. "I can't stop thinking about you. God, I miss you." His fingers dig into the dirty covers, hand moving so quick over his cock that it looks like it must _hurt._ "I miss you so damn _much."_

He shoots over his stomach, his chest, ruining his shirt, and Jason doesn't _care._ His heart is racing a mile a minute, racing under his chest, and he has to keep telling himself that it doesn't _matter._ It doesn't matter if it's real. Doesn't matter how much he wants him, how much of the feelings are still there. It doesn't. It _doesn't._

God, this is such a bad, bad, terrible idea.

He guides Roy to lie down, stripping his shirt off and using it to wipe himself clean and toss it on the floor. Roy makes a soft, content purr, curling into his naked chest, and Jason wants to hit him, a little. Shove him away. Ask him where the _hell_ he gets the impression that he still has the right to do this – still has the right to want him, to leave Jason all scrambled up and grasping at straws, and fuck, it's all such a mess.

The hell of it is, Jason can't bring himself to regret it. Not even a little.

"You're staying, right?" Roy asks him, and there's something delicate under his tone that only comes out in times like this. Only comes out when he's coming down, mired in a post-orgasmic haze, and it's so terrible that this might be Jason's favourite version of him. Soft and _open,_ open and real and not… butting heads or so deep inside his own head to the point where Jason's scared he'll get lost in it someday.

"Yeah," he says, curling into him, too, breathing in the smell of his shampoo.

Roy nuzzles into his chest. "I don't want you to go," he says like it's a confession, like Jason doesn't already know, and it's so, so tempting to tell him he won't.

All of him hurts. "Go to sleep, Roy," he says, closing his eyes. "I'll be here."

"Just until I'm better, right?" Jason doesn't need to open his eyes to see the self-deprecating grin curling over his mouth.

"Whatever," he says, instead of _no,_ because if he waits for him he'll be waiting forever. "Go to sleep."

"Okay." Roy lays his head over his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "I love you."

Jason doesn't bother pretending not to hear him. It's not like Roy's actually expecting an answer.


	3. what it does to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [but I see the things that you can't contain and what it does to you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SeXBiXcEBkY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, okay. I give up. I have no idea what's happening and how long it's gonna be.

"Is that shirt Roy's?"

"No," Jason says, not even trying to make the lie sound convincing. He slouches against the wall, averting his eyes from Dick's before they can turn disappointed. Like he knows anything. Stupid goody-two-shoes. Stupid—

"Jason." Dick reaches over, touches his cheek, and Jason lets him tilt his face up to show the vivid marks blooming down his neck. Bruises marching down to the collar of his sweater, a scarlet letter showing his blunder, and unlike Roy he doesn't even have an excuse. There wasn't anything muddling his mind. Nothing ruining his judgement. Just Roy, vivid and there and _needing_ him, and. Look. It's no secret by now that he's got a _thing_ for being wanted.

Whatever. It's not like he's the only one.

Above them, the sky looms like a blank grey canvas, clouds blotting out the mid-afternoon sun. Even while avoiding them, Jason can still feel his eyes tracing over the evidence of his indiscretion, bright and blue and dark like cold winter skies with traces of ice hiding deep in its recesses. Hiding except in times like now when it comes out, sharpening into hard focus and scraping against the edge of all the excuses bubbling up in his throat — which is absurd, because it's not he has any reason to actually _give_ them. Not to Dick. Not when Jason doesn't actually owe him anything.

To Dick's credit, he doesn't ask why. Just exhales and steps back, letting Jason pull up his sweater and duck into it like he's actually cold. "How is he?"

_How do you **think,** Dickwad?_ "Just peachy," Jason mumbles, and Dick gives him a _look._ "He could be worse," he amends, which is a very low bar to set, but hell. Jason isn't about to go airing Roy's dirty laundry to probably one of the last people he wants to hear it.

Dick gets that stubborn look to his face, and Jason can feel himself reacting, squaring up in anticipation of a fight. And then he deflates, all of the air suddenly going out of his sails. "Okay," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Fine. Okay."

It isn't like him to just give up like that. Jason eyes him, wondering if he's just switching over to another method of interrogation. But he sounds _exhausted,_ haggard and wan through his stubborn resolve, so maybe he should cut him some slack. Even a chronic over-achiever like Dick has to hit his limit eventually.

Been hitting it, honestly, but god forbid anyone tell Dick Grayson to stop.

"You keeping it together, Dickie?" Jason asks, because who is he if not the asshole who points out everything that's being tip-toed around? It's not like his reputation can get any lower. "You going to have another nervous breakdown?"

"Fuck you," Dick says without heat, shoving his shoulder hard enough to bruise and then leaning on the same wall beside him. "I'm picking my battles. You should try it sometime."

"So you _can_ learn," Jason teases, and Dick sticks his finger up in a rude gesture before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a box of cigarettes, tapping one out of its package with practiced ease.

"You got a light?" he asks Jason, and Jason gives him a flat stare.

"Seriously? You carry cigs around without a lighter? What, do you go around batting your eyes at any poor sucker you find whenever you get the hankering for a smoke?"

"You could've just said no," Dick grumbles, pulling a lighter out of his other pocket and flicking the lever down. The flame looks jarringly bright against the concrete backdrop, and the cherry flares with his pull before dying back to a dull red. "Want one?" he asks, holding out the end to Jason.

Mutely, Jason shakes his head. Dick retracts his hand, breathing in another pull and tips his head back, exhaling it back into the cloudy day. Smoke curls in the air between them, curling above in a noxious cloud before the wind sweeps it away, and it still feels wrong somehow. Still doesn't compute with the image of Dick that Jason has in his head, seeing his lips purse around the slim stick. It has nothing to do with him; Jason had quit long before Dick had picked the habit up himself, but Jason can't help feeling like it's still his fault.

Sure, Dick could've tried harder. Could've tried raising him out of the rubble instead of constantly leaving him in the dust, but that doesn't mean Jason wanted to drag him down instead.

Ants crawl beneath their feet, scurrying in and out from the numerous cracks in the asphalt. Plastic skitters a few feet in front of them, buoyed along by the breeze before hitting the fence and slowly sliding to the ground. "Man, you used to think it was so gross," Jason says, casting a glance at Dick out of the edge of his peripheral.

Dick smiles, the same kind of rueful and self-deprecating Jason sees on Roy. "You going to make me eat my words, Jace?"

"Just saying," Jason says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"You were so cute," Dick muses, and his smile seems softer, now. "Remember how tiny you were?" He holds his hand up at his waist, and Jason scowls, kicking his ankle.

"I wasn't _that_ small."

"You were," he argues. "Smaller than Damian is now." He takes another drag and sighs. "Now look at you. No one ever believes me when I tell them you were a shrimp."

"Good," Jason says with a mulish glare. "Stop squandering my name."

"I'm not squandering anything!" Dick holds up his hands with a _who, me?_ expression that hasn't worked on anyone since he was twelve. "I'm just saying." He nudges his arm and then slouches against him, warm and solid and far too thin even through his jacket. "Look how far you've come."

There are countless things Jason can choose to hate about Dick Grayson. Like how he's nosy and self-righteous and incapable of letting anything go, stubborn like a dog going after a bone. Like how he lies so easily that it barely registers as a thing anymore while at the same time being annoyingly _earnest,_ earnest and open while never revealing a damn thing about himself. Jason wouldn't know if he wasn't _there_ for half of it, tagging at the feet of his triumphs and downfalls. And he'd weathered it, weathered the worst of _him_, and to this day he doesn't know if Dick keeps him around out of a misplaced sense of guilt.

"What's with the sudden nostalgia kick, Grayson?" Jason asks, his tone veering into the kind of uncomfortable that's a precursor to him lashing out because he's never done well with sincerity. Never done well with honesty that isn't wrapped in layers and layers of evasion, and sometimes Dick indulges him and other times he does… this. Striking out of nowhere when he has his guard down and trapping him in his fangs.

"You started it," Dick tells him, but he seems to heed his warning, falling silent and staring contemplatively out into the distance. Absently, he taps the ash from his cigarette, and then he says, "You know you deserve better, right?"

Sometimes, Jason wishes he could hate him. Even just a little. Enough so that he can at least subscribe passive-aggressive motives every time he blindsides him, except Jason's seen him at his worst and it doesn't come close to the worst that Jason's ever gotten. "Funny," he says. "Roy said the same thing."

Dick frowns. "Well, maybe he's right."

"Maybe you should mind your own business," Jason snaps back, bristling without any candor because his anger feels dull and flighty, slipping through his fingers as soon as he grasps it.

"When have I ever done that?" Dick drops the stub of his cigarette and crushes it under his heels, picking it up and dropping it in an evidence bag that he'll throw into the garbage. "Look, I just. I worry about you, alright?"

Jason pushes himself up off the wall. "Worry more about yourself," he says, flippant even though he means it because he's been watching the burdens pile up on his shoulders and it's a question of _when,_ not _if_ they'll tip over. "Besides," he says, and pauses.

"What?" Dick asks him, fixing him with those eyes that have charmed secrets out of greater men, and Jason meets them evenly, hunched shoulders falling back into an easy line.

Meets them, and then looks away, staring into the cracked, crumbling buildings like there's a horizon, like it isn't the same grey, dreary landscape pasted over and over again in a monochromatic landscape. Besides, it's _Roy,_ and it's not that easy, and Dick should know that better than anyone. And they all deserve better, don't they, except they're stuck with what they have. And Jason has Roy, and Roy has Jason, and Dick has them both except Bruce taught him the kind of selflessness that loops right back around to being selfish again, and if he has his way they'll all be safe under his wing with only him bearing the weight of their burdens.

"Besides," he says, quieter, and he wishes he could say it. Say, _you deserve better, too._ Say, _if not me, then who?_ Say, _you've already ruined him once, and you ruined me, too, and he can't have you there because you're just a reminder of everything he isn't, and how dare you tell me I deserve better when you gave up on him first._ Except that isn't true, is it. Except Dick is so _good_ in a way that's rare to find within this city, rare in the same way Roy is, and Jason can't be seen when they're around.

They both deserve better. They deserve each other, but then Jason will have nothing.

"Nevermind," he says, shaking his head. _I'm selfish. I love him. I know I shouldn't, but God, he's still the best thing to ever happen to me. _"Sorry."

Dick frowns. "Jason—" he says, right as his radio beeps, and he curses, fumbling with his belt.

Perfect. "Go save the day, Officer," Jason says, giving him a mock salute, and before he can respond, turns and walks away.


	4. figure it out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [it's funny how everybody says you gotta figure it out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bF6QrI8qomg)

"Wake up, asshole," Donna calls, cheerfully tromping into his apartment. Roy groans and rolls over, smushing a pillow over his head.

"How the hell did you even get in?" he asks, his voice muffled beneath the thick cotton.

Donna stalks over, dropping a paper bag on the bedside table. "With a key."

"… did I give you a key?" Roy asks, pausing in his attempt to smother himself with his pillow.

"Nope." She perches on the bed. "Got it from Dick."

"What?" he asks, his fuzzy brain slow and trying to keep up with the conversation. He's pretty sure he never gave _Dick_ a key, either.

Donna gives him a sunny smile. "He lifted it off Jason," she says, "obviously," and lunges, snatching the blanket away before Roy can react. He hisses, curling around empty space to try and preserve his warmth, and his modesty.

"Don," he says, not caring that he's whining. "Leave me here to die."

"Nope." She takes the paper bag and waves it in front of his face. "Come on. Up."

The smell of food makes his stomach recoil. He slides further beneath the pillow, trying to block out the light filtering in through the closed blinds, the sounds exacerbating the headache that's starting to pound beneath his head, but Donna doesn't seem to be having it. She reaches for the pillow this time, wrestling it away after a minute of struggle and uses it to swat him on the ass.

Roy closes his eyes, defeated. The headache is building now into a low, steady pulse pounding in time with his heartbeat, and he presses the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Fine," he snaps. "Fine, you happy?"

"Don't be such a baby." She gets up, footsteps fading towards the kitchen. A few seconds later she comes back, pressing a glass of water into his hand. "Drink."

There's no arguing with that tone. Roy pushes himself up on his arms, wincing from the strain on his sore muscles. He takes the cup in a trembling hand, meaning to sip, except as soon as the water touches his lips he's draining the whole thing.

"More?" Donna asks with that smug, self-satisfied arch to her eyes, and Roy glares at her before sullenly handing the cup over.

"Whatever."

"That's what I thought."

She comes back with another full glass, watching as he drains it, slower this time. "Good boy," she praises him, patting his ankle, and she's being a condescending _twat_ but some part of Roy still leans towards the smooth timbre of her voice. "Now, eat something."

"I'm not really that hungry," he says, warily eyeing the bag when she reaches in and pulls out a burger. The smell makes his stomach squeeze in a way that feels less like hunger and more like just a cramp while at the same time exacerbating its emptiness.

"One bite," she says, unwrapping the foil and nudging it towards him. "You'll feel better."

"What's with you people and trying to feed me?" Roy complains.

"Oh?" she asks. "Who else?"

Silently, Roy picks up the burger.

The first mouthful makes him want to gag, throat convulsing as his stomach tries vanishing into a black hole. He chews slowly, taking his time and forcing himself to swallow down the mush that tastes like nothing more than ash and ignoring the way his stomach clenches again in protest. Oil coats his tongue, chases away the flavor that's still lingering there after last night and it should be a relief. Should feel like washing away a mistake, except –

Except nothing. He's not thinking about it. He's _not_ dwelling on it when he's just coming down.

Donna's hand is still on his ankle, her thumb brushing slow, soothing circles over the nub of bone, and it's the only thing showing her worry. Abruptly, he feels a pang of guilt, and then another, and he has to pause, waiting for the pain in his chest to go away.

"Roy?" she asks.

"Sorry," he says, and his voice wavers. "Fuck." He puts down the burger and presses the heel of his hand over his eyes, the headache starting to build again. "Fuck, sorry."

"Oh, Roy," she murmurs, crawling up to lie sit beside him, and he puts up a token struggle when she pulls him into her shoulder. Flowers surround him, the scent of something tropical and sweet filling up his senses, and it's wrong but it's _Donna_ and he lets himself shake because he can't _stop _it, stop the grief that's gripping him tight in its claws.

He doesn't cry. Not out loud. Just breathes against her, slow and careful, letting the few tears squeeze past and land on her shoulder. "God, Donna," he says, and his voice is shaking too. "I fucked up."

"You did," she agrees, open and frank and not letting him hide from his mistakes. But there's no admonishment in her tone, and she's warm, so warm, so warm and patient and _here_ and the thought of missing her fills him with an absurd guilt. It doesn't matter. It doesn't _matter._ There's nothing stopping him from wanting – not now, not anymore. But.

But.

He closes his eyes, exhausted and still aching with real and imagined pains. "Thanks," he says, his voice raw like the way his nerves feel right now.

Donna kisses his hair. "You going to be okay?"

"Yeah," he says like she won't know he's lying, but shit, what can she do about it, anyway. There's only so far that help can go if he doesn't feel like picking himself up off the ground, and he should be trying but it's hard when all he feels is exhausted and numb.

Donna's chest rises. Falls in a sigh. "Okay," she says, brushing her fingers through his hair. "Okay." There's… there's something in her tone. Frustration, mostly. Anger. Something helpless that she's trying to clamp down on, a deeper despair she's holding back for his sake, and Roy wishes he didn't know her well enough to pick it all out. Wishes he were better, in some distant part of his heart. Wishes he could be more like her, or more like Dick, or more like Jason and be less of a selfish fuck. Be more of what people need instead of always needing them instead.

Mostly, he just wants to sleep for a week.

He pulls away and doesn't look at her face, wiping his eyes as discreetly as he can with her still watching him. "Right," he says. "I won't be keeping you."

"Roy—" she starts.

"Come on." He gives her a smile that's less on this side of charming, but she doesn't call him out on it. "Don't tell me you don't have something going on." He waves his hand and sinks back against his bed. "I appreciate the concern, but you don't have to babysit me, alright?"

There's a set to her jaw like she wants to argue, but she knows that pulling at his independence is the fastest way to get him to shut down and push back. "Alright," she says, getting up. She pauses, lingering. "Just… take care of yourself, alright?"

"Yeah," he says, picking up the half-eaten burger. "I always do."

She rolls her eyes, not bothering to hide what she thinks of his self-deprecation. "I'll call you later," she says, picking up her bag. "You better still be in one piece."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, giving her a lazy salute.

"And don't forget to put some clothes on," she says, giving a pointed look to his still naked body. "You can't charm your way out of public indecency charges."

"I get it, _mom."_ He rolls his eyes. "And you'd be surprised what I can charm my way out of."

"I'm sure," she says drily. "Okay, well." She seems like she wants to say something more, but then she just hefts her bag up on her shoulder. "I'm going then. Try to not get into any more trouble."

"Bye, Donna," he says with a small smirk.

"I see how it is." She scowls, an exaggerated caricature. "Bye, Harper."

His grin falls when she leaves. He puts the burger down, wrapping it again in foil and dropping it back in the bag. Something knocks against his hand when he shoves it back on the table, and he eyes Jason's wallet before fishing his phone out from beneath it. There's a bunch of new texts, and he scrolls down until he finds Jason's.

_Think I left my wallet at your place,_ it says. _You find it anywhere?_

Roy glances at the table. _Yeah,_ he replies, sending a picture. _Got it right here, Jaybird._

_Cool. You free tonight?_

He bites his lip. _Got no plans,_ he types out.

_I'll drop by._

He drops his phone on the bed and pulls the blanket back up, dropping against the pillows and throwing an arm over his eyes.

Sleep. Sleep sounds like a good plan.


	5. touch me like I'm glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is that my shirt?" he asks when Jason shrugs off his jacket.
> 
> "Yeah," he says. "Didn't think you'd mind."
> 
> Roy hums. "It looks good on you," he says, before seeming to realize the implications. "Sorry," he mutters. "I just—" he takes a deep breath. "Sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I never had nobody touch me like I'm glass with a moon-burnt kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4REqXDKvxU)

"Hey."

"Hey," Jason responds, shifting in front of Roy's doorstep. His eyes keep sliding off to the side, restless and jittery and –

Awkward.

It's awkward.

He _feels_ awkward, standing in front of Roy and avoiding his eyes while surreptitiously trying to peek out the corner of his gaze. If anything, he looks worse than this morning, shadows pulling at the delicate skin beneath his eyes. Maybe it's just the lighting washing him out, turning him wan and sallow instead of just pale – or maybe that's just Jason's brain latching onto any other explanation it can. The freckles dotting his face seem faded like a worn-out painting, and Jason wonders when was the last time he'd even seen sunlight.

"You want to come in?" Roy asks, stepping to the side.

"I…" he looks up, catches his eyes, and the words stick to his throat. "Sure," Jason says, stepping over the metal divider and looking around like he wasn't just here this morning. "You cleaned."

"Don't sound so surprised," Roy says with a faint smile, closing the door behind him. "I had some free time." He heads towards the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"I'm good," Jason says, following him into the kitchen. It feels so… normal. _Easy._ It shouldn't be this easy, not anymore, but Jason finds himself falling back into habit, leaning against the counter and watching as Roy pours coffee into one of the mugs Jason got him as a gag gift last year. Pastel pink with a rounded bottom and a delicate handle fit for only one finger, _#1_ _Princess_ printed on the side in ribbony calligraphy so fancy that it's barely legible. The scene feels casual. Domestic.

Suddenly, the walls feel too small.

Roy's watching him over the edge of the cup, green eyes steady and sharp and hooded in a way Dick swears he had picked up from _Jason._ "So," he asks. "How's Dick? Haven't seen that asshole in ages."

"He's busy," Jason says, and immediately wonders why he's defending him. "You know him."

"Yeah." Roy snorts, mirroring Jason's posture. "I sure do."

Silence falls between, heavy with all the subtlety of a hammer. And it should be Jason's cue to just grab what he came for and _go,_ except.

"You want to watch something?" Roy asks him, and just like that, the moment's gone.

Jason can't help rolling his eyes. "Netflix and chill, Harper? Really?"

Roy lets out a burst of startled laughter. "Hey," he says, eyes crinkling at the edges. "It can be whatever you want."

His fingers graze Jason's arm on his way out of the kitchen, and for a moment Jason is paralyzed with the memory of his mouth sucking where he had just touched. He shakes it off, wandering around while listening to the sounds of Roy setting up his laptop, opening up a familiar cabinet to find that there's still a shelf dedicated to all his favourite brands of tea. And why wouldn't there be, it's not like Roy's thrown anything out in the last few months. Not his tea, or any of Jason's clothes mingling with his in his drawers. Not the books Jason had left over, or the multitudes of scarves and knit hats that make Roy look more like one of Tim's school friends. He still wears them when it gets too cold out, which for him seems to be whenever it drops below sixty.

Jason closes the cabinet. Opens it again, getting another mug – baby blue with _Spoiled Rotten_ on its side – and shakes out some of the Ceylon leaves into the cup. The kettle is exactly where he remembers, on the counter next to the coffee maker, and Roy had _cleaned,_ he'd moved things around but everything Jason needs is still where he'd left it. It's –

God. _God._

He needs to get a hold of himself.

Steam starts coming out of the kettle. Jason makes his damn tea and emerges, finding Roy tucked into the corner of the couch. There's something already playing on the conspicuously fancy TV that looks out of place in his ratty apartment, and the throw blanket over his lap is another gift from Jason. He turns, shoots Jason a small smile that's fraying at the edges, and he looks so _good_ that it almost takes Jason's breath away. Frazzled and tired, dressed in an old, shapeless shirt with his frizzy hair held back by a headband he must've stolen from Donna, and it's the trust that's displayed in his comfort.

Trusting Jason should've never been an option in the first place. For some reason, he still does.

Reminding himself that this is the whole damn reason he's here, Jason sets his mug down on the coffee table and shrugs off his jacket. He doesn't have to look to feel Roy staring at him, at his shirt and the bruises blooming across his neck in dark shapes matching the size of his mouth.

"Is that my shirt?" he asks as Jason peels back the blanket and settles on the couch, sitting on the other side.

"Yeah," he says without looking. "Didn't think you'd mind."

Roy hums. "It looks good on you," he says, before seeming to realize the implications. "Sorry," he mutters. "I just—" he takes a deep breath. "Sorry."

Frustration underlies his tone. Jason stares at the TV, trying to focus on the show similar to the ones Roy and Dick used to watch together all the time back when they were partners. Back when Jason had been just a nuisance tagging in Dick's shadow, and now…

Now Roy is here, and who knows where the hell Dick is, and Jason can't stop remembering the taste of his mouth. The way Roy had hovered over him, caging him in his arms and trapping him beneath his body, and it made him feel so _safe._ It's safety, still, the meaning of his presence. The way he had caught Jason back then and stopped him from falling, and now Jason can't seem to return the favour.

He curls his legs up, sinking into the couch. So focused on trying not to focus on Roy that when he touches his ankle, it almost makes him jump.

"What," Jason says, turning to find Roy already looking at him.

There's a slight furrow between his brows that smooths away. Roy gives him another smile and says, "You don't have to stay, you know."

It's Jason's turn to frown. "If you want me to go—"

"I don't," Roy snaps back, the temper he keeps suppressing rising to meet Jason's. "Jesus, Jaybird. When do I ever—" he cuts himself off, snapping his jaw shut in one tense line, and Jason averts his eyes because he can't look at him right now. Can't look at the sheen over his eyes, can't look at his mouth set in a thin slash ready to cut him to pieces. It's the comedown. The comedown always hits him hard even though Roy doesn't seem to notice, and he shouldn't be alone right now but what's the point if Jason's only making it worse.

The blanket shifts. Roy leans towards him, almost creeping closer before seeming to reconsider, which is a good choice because Jason feels like he might bolt if he touches him right now. "Jason," he says, and the uncertainty in his voice makes his heart ache. "Are you okay?"

What.

The non-sequitur is almost enough to make him turn. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Jason asks, keeping his eyes stubbornly fixed forward.

"Yeah," Roy says with a smile in his voice, that self-deprecating curl that always makes Jason want to kiss it away. "But we already know the answer to that."

He shifts closer. The heat of his body burns against his shoulder, and Jason lifts his arm when Roy curls into his side. It's an awkward fit; Roy's shoulders are even wider than his, and he has to slouch in order to rest his head half against Jason's shoulder, half against his chest.

"Roy," he whispers, staring down at the bright strands of hair laying over where Jason's heart is beating at double speed. "What are you doing?"

Roy doesn't answer at first, laying his hand over Jason's and prying his fingers out of the tight grip they have on the couch cushions. "You don't have to go," he says, just when Jason is about to open his mouth and ask again.

"That's—"

"Don't go."

"Roy—"

"Shh," he says, tilting his head up. "Jaybird, just. Shh. Shut up."

Jason holds out for a few more seconds before melting, curling his arm over his waist and pulling Roy close like he's still his. Roy sighs, curling into him like he's trying to shield him with his body, and it's ridiculous because – Jason's here for Roy, not the other way around, and he doesn't _need_ protecting. He's never needed any protection, and Roy still –

He still –

"I hate you," Jason mumbles into his hair, reminding himself he broke it off for a reason.

"Yeah, Jaybird." Roy brushes over his fingers, raising his hand and kissing his scarred knuckles. "I know."


	6. in the moondust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What was that?" he asks.
> 
> Roy ducks his head. The bright glare of his phone paints a ghastly cast over his features as he stares at the screen, not meeting Jason's eyes. "A job," he says, tossing it down on the coffee table with a loud clatter.
> 
> Jason frowns. "You're still taking those?"
> 
> A tight smile stretches his lips. "Come on, Jaybird. Don't be a hypocrite."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the brightness of the sun will give me just enough to bury my love in the moondust](https://soundcloud.com/jaymes-young/moondust)

When Jason pries open his eyes they're heavy and thick, crusted over with salt seeping into the corners and clinging to his lashes. He stares up at the ceiling, watching the colours play across the ceiling from the show that's still playing. Roy must've muted it at some point, and Jason chances a peek down, but all he can see is messy red hair splaying over his collar.

There's a crick at his neck. Sometime during the night they must've shifted, Jason sliding down on the couch until he's using the armrest as a pillow with Roy sprawled half beside, half on top of him. His spine is twisting at an angle, all his weight resting on one hip and his legs scream in protest when he tries straightening them out. Not that there's really anywhere to put them except on the floor; this couch really isn't made to accommodate two people as big as they are, and Roy's taking most of the space, inadvertently pushing Jason to the edge.

He raises the hand that's not trapped under his body by their combined bulk, running it through Roy's frazzled hair, and Roy makes a soft noise while nuzzling into his chest. There's a vague corner of his mind that thinks he should be feeling guilty, or ashamed, or _something,_ but fuck. He's tired, a cloudy fog still weighing down his mind from his impromptu nap. Roy sighs, melting further against him, and it's so exhausting constantly denying himself what he wants. What they _both_ want. Each slow breath fans across his chest, and Jason can feel the steady thump of his heart beating against his ribs. A promise, a constant reassurance saying _I'm here, I'm here, I'm still alive,_ and there were so many times when Jason thought he wouldn't hear it anymore. So many sleepless nights spent tossing and turning and scouring Roy's social media to check his most recent post, and…

And they were doing _good._ At least, they were doing good at avoiding each other, and Jason had gone as far as pulling up his contact. Going through his texts, staring at the call button at the top of the screen, but he hadn't pressed it. Hadn't given in to the urge to call just to hear his voice again even if it's just to scream at him, even when he was shaking and tense and the walls seem to be closing in around him. Even when his own place seemed so empty and cold with him there all alone, and he'd spent hours pacing circles into each room.

Maybe it makes him strong, the fact that it wasn't him who broke first, but if it's a strength then it sure as hell doesn't feel like one. Feels like he's running away instead, too scared to confront the consequences of his own decisions. If he really is strong, then he wouldn't have caved as soon as Roy called.

Fuck, he shouldn't be here right now.

A shrill noise cuts through Jason's self-recriminations. He flinches, almost shoving Roy off before realizing that it's a ringtone, and Roy startles awake with a sound too soft to be a gasp. A second later, and he grumbles, patting around the couch and his pocket until he finds his phone half wedged under Jason's back and raises it to his ear.

"'llo?" he asks, tilting the mouthpiece away from his head to yawn. He pushes himself up off of Jason, shoving the blanket away at the same time, and the cool air feels welcome against his overheated skin. "Yeah, 's me." He pauses, getting up to start pacing in front of the television. "What?" he asks, suddenly sounding much more alert. "Do you have any idea—" he starts, and pauses, jaw tightening a fraction before he obviously forces himself to relax. "Yeah," he says, tugging at the end of his frazzled hair. "Yeah, I'll take it."

He hangs up, plunging the apartment back into silence. Slowly, Jason eases himself back up into a sitting position.

"What was that?" he asks.

Roy ducks his head. The bright glare of his phone paints a ghastly cast over his features as he stares at the screen, not meeting Jason's eyes. "A job," he says, tossing it down on the coffee table with a loud clatter.

Jason frowns. "You're still taking those?"

A tight smile stretches his lips. "Come on, Jaybird. Don't be a hypocrite."

"I'm not," Jason starts, and he curls his fists tight, cutting into his palm. "I should go."

Roy looks at him. He's just a shape right now, backlit by the TV like a ghost from his memories and it feels like he's so far away. "Sure," he says, shoulders falling. "Okay. I won't keep you."

Jason bites back the sudden irritability that grips him and gets up, grabbing his jacket where it's draped over the back of the couch. Remembering that he's still wearing Roy's shirt, he pulls at it, says, "You want this back, or…?"

"Keep it," Roy tells him, giving Jason a fleeting smile before brushing past him on his way to the bedroom. "I told you, it looks good." He comes back with his wallet, pressing up behind Jason and sliding it back into his pocket, and Jason grits his teeth.

"Roy."

"Habit," he mumbles, stepping away and raising his hands to show his consternation. "Sorry."

He's looking at him. Looking at Jason like there's something to be said, and Jason stares back, squaring his shoulders like he's waiting for a blow. "What," he bites out when seconds pass and nothing happens, and it seems to shake Roy out of his daze.

"Nothing," he says, taking a half step back and hesitating. "Just." His chest falls with his exhale. "Thanks," he says, looking away. "For. You know."

It feels like a punch to the gut. "Yeah," Jason says, backing towards the door. "Whatever."

Roy watches him. Watches as Jason bends down and scoops up his helmet, coming around beside him to open up the door, and he pauses again with his hand on the knob. "Jason," he says. "You know you can… I mean." His finger taps against the doorknob. He sighs, running his hand through his hair again, and Jason bites back the urge to reach out and smooth it back down. Take his hand, fold it against his to calm all of that restless tension currently running through him. "I know – I know we're not—"

"Roy," Jason says quietly. "Don't."

A familiar stubborn light falls in his eyes. "No," he says. "Listen to me. No matter what happens you can come, okay?" He grabs his sleeve. "You can still come here." His throat bobs in a swallow. "If you need a place to lie low, or…"

_Stop,_ Jason thinks, but the word can't seem to make it past the lump in his throat.

"I can." Roy's voice drops, gets softer. "I can go, If you want. I don't have to be here. Just don't…" the hand on his sleeve tightens. "Just come, alright? If you need to."

Jason forces himself to meet his eyes. Forces his voice to be flat and unaffected when he says, "Sure." Shrugs his hand off his arm and brushes his fingers away from the knob, unlocking and opening the damn door himself.

Apparently done with his speech, Roy watches in silence. "Bye, Jaybird," he says right before Jason gets it open.

Jason pauses, halfway outside already. "Bye, Harper," he says, and shuts it before Roy can say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do I sense... plot.


	7. dive into your ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fun, Dickie," he says. "You still know what that means, right? Because sometimes I wonder."
> 
> "Fun?" he asks, taking a step closer. "You call this _fun?"_
> 
> "Wow," Roy says wondrously. "Man, you really _did_ forget."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I don't know who you are, but I'd dive into your ocean](https://soundcloud.com/trap_train/kiarra-feels-kshmr-remix)

It takes five days to find him.

Four days of searching and scouring through missing person reports and sudden cases of murder with clear motives but no real culprit, following the winding paths they paint while Gannon keeps shooting him increasingly apprehensive. Four days until he gives up and puts his ear to the ground instead, following the trail of whispers and gossip until they lead him to a house uptown.

It's easy.

It shouldn't be this fucking easy.

"Hey, Dickie," Roy says, surprised expression melting into a grin when he sees him. He's draped like an indolent king across a gaudy gold couch too small to fully contain his long limbs, one foot grazing the floor, the other dangling into thin air off of the armrest. Fingers brush the plush white carpet beneath as he takes a hit from the blunt he's holding before they rise, dragging in the girl giggling on top of his chest and slotting their mouths together. Thin tendrils of smoke seep out from the edges before she sucks down his exhale pushes closer, Roy's hand sliding from her neck down to her ass to help her keep her balance.

Dick crosses his arms, casting a discerning glance around the room as they keep kissing, wet messy sounds mingling with the music pulsing through the open door. Whoever owns this house is obviously trying too hard with the gold edging, gold trim, gold furniture and white marble counters stacked on top of dark granite islands. Prismatic shards of light drip from the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and the debonair aesthetic clashes with the red cups scattered over every surface, the spilled drinks and other assorted signs of hedonism more befitting of the atmosphere downstairs.

"Roy," he says, eyes lingering on the crumpled dollar bill on the coffee table, the business card and lines of white powder cut against the glass. _"Roy,"_ he repeats, louder, when he either doesn't hear him or, more likely, actively ignores him.

"Geez, Dickie." Roy pulls away from the girl. His lips are bitten and wet, his hair kiss-mussed in a messy tangle, and Dick sort of wants to punch him right now. "Chill out, will you?

"We're leaving," he bites out, barely holding back the urge to grab him and pull him off that stupid couch only because of the girl still perching on his chest.

Roy rolls his eyes, but he does hand the blunt off to her. "You going to be okay?" he asks.

"You're leaving already?" she asks, tinted lips pulling into a pout. "But we were having _fun."_

"Sorry, baby," he tells her, rubbing her shoulder. "I know." He jerks his head at Dick. "But this asshole here has to be a huge wet blanket, as usual."

Dick grabs him by the wrist when he gets up, digging nails into Roy's skin while reminding himself that he shouldn't punch Roy because Roy is his _friend._ God knows why, though, when this shit keeps happening. He drags him to the door, watching as he fumbles on his shoes, and when they finally get outside he shoves him and sends him stumbling against the brick of the house.

"What the hell is your problem?" he asks, unable to keep it back.

Roy rolls his eyes, still slouching against the wall. "Fun, Dickie," he says. "You still know what that means, right? Because sometimes I wonder."

"Fun?" he asks, taking a step closer. "You call this _fun?"_

"Wow," Roy says wondrously. "Man, you really _did_ forget."

Dick isn't going to punch him. Dick is going to _strangle_ him, because maybe that'll finally get him to shut up. "This isn't about me, this is about you!" He jabs a finger into his chest. This close, he can smell the alcohol in his breath, the weed in his hair, his clothes, maybe even see specks of white dust under his nose of the lightning were better. "Is this seriously what you're doing now? Going on benders and relapsing—"

"I didn't," Roy says, scarred fingers curling over his own. His eyes are bright and wide, pupils dark beneath pale lashes catching the streetlight outside. "I swear I didn't, Dick."

"That's not the point," Dick insists, anger draining but only somewhat. "Look, I know you and Jason—"

Those lashes shiver, grow more heavy as Roy flattens his mouth into a thin line. "Don't fucking talk to me about Jason."

Even the air seems to pause at his tone. Roy can be surprisingly intimidating when he wants to be – surprising only because most of the time, he goes out of the way to ensure that he _isn't._ "Roy," Dick says, faltering.

"Don't." Roy bares his teeth and shoves him away, pushing from the wall and trudging down the driveway.

"Come on." Dick follows him, beseeching and annoyed. "You know there are better ways, right? Hell, just _talk_ to someone, or—"

"Fuck's sake," Roy says. "You never know when to shut up, do you?"

"Seriously?" he says. "I'm trying to _help._ You think this is easy—"

"Easy for you? Yeah, no, of course not, of course it's all about _you—"_

"Easy for _him?"_ he snaps, rounding up on him and grabbing his arm. "Do you know how worried Jason was when you just up and went missing? And after that stunt you pulled the other day, too."

"Dick," Roy says quietly. "Let go of me."

"No," he insists. "You can't keep _avoiding_ it, Roy. It happened, okay? He… he made his choice." And Dick doesn't _get_ it, but whatever, it's not about him. "Come on," he says, quieter and hopelessly lost in the ways he's floundering, in all the ways he's trying to _help,_ help Roy and Jason both but god, they make it so damn _hard._

Roy ducks his head. For a second Dick lets himself hope that maybe he's actually gotten through to him but then he pulls his head up and he's smiling, shaking his head.

"Dick," he says gently, pulling his hand off of his arm. "I don't think you have the first fucking clue what Jason wants."

He jams his key into the car lock, twisting and yanking it out like he's pulling out the dagger he'd just jammed into Dick's gut. And okay, it's true that Roy knows him better. Knows Jason better than anyone else in the world, but Dick's been _trying _and – "At least let me drive you," he says.

"Go fuck yourself," Roy says lazily, getting in and slamming the door shut in his face, hard enough that it rattles the chassis. Dick steps back as the car starts with a loud growl, watching as it peels down the road.

"Dammit," he mutters, dropping his head and digging his fingers into his scalp. He closes his eyes, counting his ragged breathing until it cools, until the hot rush leaves his blood. Only then does he turn and kick the curb, scowling. _"Dammit!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all have no fucking clue how hard this chapter fought me ~_~
> 
> and don't drink and drive, kids. or smoke and drive. or impair your mind in any way and drive. don't be Roy, is what I'm saying. or anyone in this fic. they all need help. smh.


	8. keep on drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headlights flood his mirrors. Jason gets off his bike, knocking the kickstand down before striding over and tapping on his window. "Hey, shithead," he says, slowly mouthing the words at him from behind the barrier of glass, "open your fucking doors."

_"Where the fuck are you?"_ Jason's voice crackles through the phone, sharp like a whip's lash.

"Hey, Jaybird," Roy says, unhurried. He reaches up, adjusting the phone nestled between his ear and his shoulder before dropping it back on the wheel and making a turn that swerves too widely. Whatever, not like anyone's out at this time. All the functional people who have jobs and families and contribute to society in meaningful ways have already gone to sleep, and the clubs don't close for another hour. "Miss me already?"

_"Are you in your car?"_ Jason demands. _"Are you **driving?** What the hell is wrong with you?"_

Roy makes a noncommittal hum. "Hey," he says. "You get that from Dick, or come up with it all by yourself?"

_"Fuck you,"_ Jason says, and this time it sounds like he means it. Or half means it. At least half. It's probably closer to sixty percent, or seventy. _"You know what? Just – stop. Sit tight. I'll be there."_

"Jason—"

_"Don't you dare fucking move,"_ Jason snaps before he hangs up.

Roy slams on the brakes, narrowly avoiding running a red light and having his engine stall. The car waiting at the other set of lights zips in front of him, and really, there's nothing saying he _has_ to listen. Jason's the one trying to make it his problem when it doesn't involve him. Nothing Roy does involves him anymore even if it is _about_ him, and that's… that's his fault.

That's his own damn fault for pulling away, but never being able to let things go.

He coasts for another block before switching lanes and turning into an empty parking lot. The engine shuts off, and it's so quiet with him here by himself. He's so _cold_ even with the alcohol warming his blood, the sweat breaking across his skin that's just making everything worse. He wants –

Wants a lot of things, really. Dark hair, green eyes. White packets and needles. Ollie slinging his arm across his shoulders, gesturing at a gleaming crowd of fake smiles.

Jason. He wants Jason.

At least that one is attainable. He leans his forehead against the wheel, feeling his scars itching. Thinks of Jason, sharp smiles and bright eyes shifting green-blue-green like seagrass swaying with the tides. The way he'd looked when Roy last saw him, wearing his shirt on his couch in his home while smelling like smoke and gasoline. The way he'd looked at _him,_ hard mouth and hard eyes and hard shoulders squaring like he's ready to fight, like he can still put up the same walls that Roy had already torn down. And it's funny that Dick claims he's doing any of this for Jason when he still walks around him on tiptoe, when he can't even hear the things that he's screaming.

Fuck.

He shivers, blinking down at the dark, hard plastic resting under his nose. _What the hell are you doing?_ And yeah, that's a good question. Because it's not that he's looking for trouble, or looking to relapse, or looking to die, or looking to anything, and hell, maybe that's just the issue here. It's not like he's _looking,_ but he should. Should be looking for something, anything, it's just.

Easier. It's just easier to not.

Yeah. He shouldn't have waited.

Headlights flood his windows. The suffocating quiet is abruptly broken by the roar of an engine peeling to a stop beside him. Jason gets off his bike, knocking the kickstand down before striding over and tapping on his window.

It's impossible to see his face beneath the tinted visor of his helmet. For a moment Roy is frozen, wondering if it's really _Jason_ beneath all that leather, but the moment is broken when Jason reaches up and pulls it off, shaking his sweaty hair free. "Hey, shithead," he says, slowly mouthing the words at him from behind the barrier of the window, "open your fucking doors."

"Hey," Roy says, rolling down the window.

Jason looks pissed. "What," he starts, and then he makes a low, frustrated noise, cradling his helmet under his arm and glaring at Roy like he wants to cut him apart. Slice open his skin and pull apart his muscle and bone so maybe he can find the parts that are broken, the parts that are rusting over and dirty and pull them right out. Like there's anything that can be _fixed,_ and that's just like Jason, isn't it.

Roy's given up, by now, trying to convince Jason that he didn't save him. That he did it all on his own, and Roy was just a spectator standing beside him, cheering him on.

And what does it say, anyway, that Jason seems so sure that there's something to be repaid here, and Roy is letting him. Letting him think that, letting him try, because – because he's gone, otherwise. Because Roy isn't good enough to keep him, but fuck, he wants to be. Wants to be _enough,_ for once in his life, and maybe it's selfish and conceited and fucked up. And maybe he doesn't care. And maybe –

Maybe he still can't lie to himself even though he keeps trying. Trying to learn from the best.

The doors unlock. Roy ducks his head, staring down at the wheel as Jason gets in, and the chilly night air makes him shiver again. He doesn't see Jason noticing, it, not until Jason leans over and drapes his jacket over him like a blanket.

"Thanks," Roy mumbles, pulling it tighter around his shoulders and ducking his nose into the scent of Jason. Avoiding his eyes still, because he doesn't know what he'll do if he sees them. Beg, maybe. Ask him to come back. Or why the hell he thinks this is a smart idea when he still – when they still – and fuck, he should've. Should've drank more, shouldn't have had that sandwich earlier. Shouldn't have fucking listened to Dick and just threw him out on his ass when he showed up out of nowhere and started throwing around his self-righteous schtick.

Fucking Dick.

"You haven't been home," Jason says, finally, and Roy shrugs, staring down at his lap.

"Sorry," he says, his tongue a slow clumsy burden roving in his mouth. He blinks when his eyes seem to falter, when the world seems to spin in the wrong direction for a second. "Didn't think you cared."

It's the wrong thing to thing. It's not _true,_ for one, and for another –

Jason exhales through his nose. "Alright," he says, his voice falling into that type of deadly calm that isn't really calm at all. The car rattles as he opens the door again, slams it shut with a resounding _bang_ that makes Roy's ears ring, and okay, yeah, he probably deserves that. Fuck. Something close to panic grips his throat, and doesn't Jason need his jacket back? It's part of his gear, after all, but he doesn't _want_ to give it back – doesn't want him to go, but he's going. He's leaving again. He's.

The door on his side wretches open with a violent jerk. "Come on," Jason barks gruffly, pulling Roy out of the car, and he stumbles on the asphalt, would've fallen flat on his face if Jason wasn't there to catch him. The cool night air seems to be sinking into his bones, and even Jason turning the jacket around, bullying his arms into the sleeves doesn't help that much with chasing the chills away.

"Jay?" he mumbles, blinking to try and clear his vision.

It doesn't work. He almost stumbles again when Jason shoves something at him, hard and round and – "Put it on," Jason tells him. The other helmet. The spare that he keeps in his trunk.

"But," Roy starts.

Jason makes an impatient noise and yanks it out of his hands, shoving it over Roy's head, and his forgotten headache throbs back to the forefront. There's no time to dwell on it though, not when Jason is dragging him to his bike.

"Get on," he tells him, jerking his head at the back of his seat before pulling his own helmet down over his head, and Roy shouldn't – he shouldn't –

"I have your jacket," he says, because somehow this seems to be important. Seems to be a very important thing, but Jason straddles his bike and turns back, flipping his visor to give him an expectant look, and Roy follows, sliding behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist. Fuck, he's so close. So _warm._

The world spins faster as Jason takes off. Roy closes his eyes and leans against his back, waiting to see where Jason will take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again. do noT. drink and drive. don't be roy. roy is a terrible role model.


	9. petals on bedsheets like glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're pretty," he says, and Jason rolls his eyes.
> 
> "Anything important to add?"
> 
> "I think," he says, in the same dreamy voice, "that I'm going to throw up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _petals on bedsheets like glass crash down ; silence is all I have now_ ](https://open.spotify.com/track/0AuPsRrLQ5FZIJfKzrHNVm)

Bright fluorescents glare down at where they're sitting, seemingly taking turns stabbing Roy in the head. Everything hurts right now, his head, his throat, the fatigue that's setting into his tired muscles. The coke is wearing off, alcohol either hitting him harder or wearing off, too, getting to the point where he's starting to feel a hangover despite the fact that he hasn't really slept in the last few days. A couple snatches here and there in the backs of couches, on beds, power naps he'd grabbed in the cab or in the back of someone's car.

Tremors race down his arms. Roy clenches his hands into fists on his lap, forcing them still before grabbing his glass and draining half of it in one gulp. Ice numbs his tongue, numbs his throat as it slides down to his empty stomach.

God, he wishes it were something else in his glass right now.

Jason doesn't talk to him, eyes skating around the diner like skittish rats, like he's just waiting for someone to pop out from behind the shitty tables and shitty booths screaming bloody murder and shank him. Maybe he is. Hell, it's not like Roy knows what Jason gets up to in his free time nowadays. Not that it's really changed much, or maybe it has, considering…

"You sure you don't want to just leave?"

"Shut up," Jason says, the first words he'd said to Roy ever since literally dragging him in through the doors shoving him into a booth. Not that it took much effort from his part; Roy doesn't know if he can take five steps on his own right now. The headache is building behind his eyes, pulsing into a halo, and he blinks, staring down at the table.

"Baby," he says, feeling Jason's attention snap right to him. And it makes him smile to see how Jason still _responds_ to his pet names; he'd never gotten over how flustered they made him. Even now, he probably still has the start of a blush over his cheeks. He blushes easily, too, not that Roy's ever told him, because if he tells him then Jason will start trying to hide it. He wants to see it, now, but just the thought of lifting his eyes feels like it's too much effort right now, and besides, he can still feel Jason looking at _him._

That counts. For what, he doesn't know.

What was he thinking again?

"What," Jason snaps when Roy doesn't continue, too busy swaying while staring down at the table. Roy blinks, lifting his head with great effort, smiling when he sees Jason.

"You're pretty," he says, and Jason rolls his eyes.

"Anything important to add?"

"I think," he says, in the same dreamy voice, "that I'm going to throw up."

Somehow, Jason manages to wrangle him into the bathroom before he upchucks over all the nice upholstery at Denny's, if 'nice' was defined by a six year old who'd lived in a house with beige walls and beige furniture and beige everything for their entire life thus far. Kneels beside Roy, holding his hair back as he heaves over the toilet, and shit, Roy wouldn't be surprised if there's an ulcer in his throat by now from how much he's puked in the last several days. Ask anyone, and they'll tell you that he's always had issues when it came to self-moderation. Heroin, alcohol, you name it.

God, he just wants to go _home._

"Fuck," he eventually manages to say, his voice all scratched-raw and rough like he'd spent the last day shoving cock in his mouth. Tears are brimming in his eyes from all the raw acid burning up his throat, his sinuses, and it's physically impossible but right now they sort of feel like they're burning out of his eyes as well. He groans, head hanging down, and Jason's grip on his hair immediately turns from gentle to harsh as he holds his head up, stops him from impacting face-first against the toilet seat.

"Yeah," Jason sighs, ripping another few sheets of toilet paper from the roll and using it to dab at his mouth. "Yeah, you huge goddamn disaster."

His voice is gentle in spite of his words. His touch, too, gentle and light like Roy is fragile, like he might break and shatter if he presses too hard, and Roy wants to be annoyed but right now he can't seem to dredge up any feeling but tired. Some distant part of him notes that he's shaking, cold sweat covering over his entire body, and he's cold, so fucking cold right now, and Jason is the only thing that's holding him up. And isn't that some kind of an apt metaphor, even after – even if they're all done, and God, what the hell.

All Roy wanted was to be _good_ to him.

He breathes, slowly, forcing the trembling nausea down. The smell of his own puke is making him want to be sick again, or maybe that's just the everything else. God, he feels like such shit. The world feels like it's falling in around him, crashing at the edges of his head and wavering like this is a dream, and maybe it is.

Maybe he'll wake up with Jason next to him, or even further, wake up to his door flying open and a little body bouncing on the bed against him as he groans and buries his face into the pillows.

But if he goes too far back, then he wouldn't have Jason.

Slow breaths fan over his hair. "You good?" Jason asks, and maybe Roy's just sobered up, or maybe Jason's just dropped enough of his pretenses to let Roy hear the concern that's in his voice.

"I feel like I'm going to throw up all my internal organs," Roy answers honestly, and Jason snorts behind him.

"Throw up all the alcohol you drank, maybe," he says, and there's no judgement in his voice as he dabs at Roy's face again even though there should be. And if Dick were here, he'd be berating him by now. Wouldn't have stopped since he dragged Roy off his bike, in fact, a soothing medley of background noise for Roy to tune out and ignore while he keeps making the exact same terrible decisions, but Jason never was one for idle chatter.

He's always let Roy fill their silences.

"Hey, Jaybird," he says, tilting his head, and then he pauses, blinking. "Is that a glory hole?"

Jason follows his gaze. "Looks like it," he says conversationally, and somehow that's the funniest thing in the world right now.

Roy dips his head, shoulders shaking with his laughter. Lets Jason pull him back against his chest and try to drag him up, but his legs don't seem to want to cooperate. "Jesus, Harper," Jason groans after the third time it doesn't work. "It's not that funny."

"It's just," Roy tilts his head back against Jason's shoulder. "It's really not," he concedes, eventually, still giggling.

"You're a mess," Jason tells him fondly, brushing some of the sweaty hair out of his face. His hand feels cool against his fever-flushed skin, and it feels like a paradox because Roy still so cold right now, shivering even while enveloped in Jason's heat.

"Yeah," Roy agrees, closing his eyes. "Yeah."

The stall feels too small, suddenly. Feels like it's closing in around them both, light teal walls with rusted metal showing through the cracks. Roy blinks up at the ceiling, blearily staring as it flickers grey-white-grey from a blinking fluorescent light somewhere beyond their vision, and he's so, so tired, so beyond drained that it doesn't even feel like emptiness anymore.

"Hey," he says, reaching down and putting his shaking fingers over Jason's own. "I already told you that you deserve better, right?"

Jason's breath doesn't hitch. Stays the same slow, even pace as he spreads his fingers to let Roy's slot in. "Yeah," he says. "You did."

"I miss her," Roy tells him, quietly, closing his eyes even when he knows he shouldn't, because she'll be there, waiting at the back of his eyelids. "I miss my baby girl."

Jason doesn't say anything. His grip tightens, and this time when he stands up, Roy lets Jason pull him to his feet, helping as much as he can. Leans into his shoulder when Jason reaches over and flushes the toilet, wanting to melt in him, melt into his skin. Feel his slow heartbeat thumping against his own, his chest, his back, his palm, pressed right up to his ear.

"Yeah, Roy," Jason says, his gruff-low voice sinking around them like a hazy shroud. "I know." He holds him, and Roy's too drained to cry but he sort of wants to, right now. "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> I, uh. Was feeling creatively cockblocked on my current projects and decided to write, like. A short snippet to keep the juices flowing. A few paragraphs max. One page at most.
> 
> One hour and 1.5 k later, this might've gotten a little out of hand.
> 
> Edit: this has definitely gotten out of hand. Help.
> 
> Edit2: [come find me on tumblr](https://kiseiakhun.tumblr.com/) if you want to see me complain about literally every single chapter as they're being written


End file.
